


never the same river

by pr_scatterbrain



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Napoleonic Wars, Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-01-22 22:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21309799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pr_scatterbrain/pseuds/pr_scatterbrain
Summary: The Treaty of Saint Petersburg is signed secretly in the spring of 1812. It creates a formal alliance between Sweden and the Russian Empire against the rising threat of Napoleon. Part of the treaty involves a form of collateral; a marriage contract.Nicke might be a second son, but he is a Bäckström. Still with worth, if not estates of his own.The aforementioned worth had been calculated to the krona when he had been ransomed by the French. It had been paid by Gabriel, the Crown Prince. At the time Nicke had not known how he was to repay his cousin. Now that is no longer a mystery.
Relationships: Nicklas Backstrom/Alexander Ovechkin/Alexander Semin
Comments: 19
Kudos: 90
Collections: ALL CAPS Exchange 2019





	never the same river

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whitchbhitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchbhitch/gifts).

> to greenurr - thank you for your amazing prompts. I hope you get a bit of a laugh out of this madcap Jane Austen meets Napoleonic war romance which is only vaguely historically accurate. I have no excuse for it; it just happened. Sending you all the best wishes <3
> 
> Thank you to the amazing mods who organised this exchange. It’s so wonderful to have people like you in this fandom; you bring us together and enrich our entire community. Thank you for your generosity and also your understanding when I mixed up the first due date!

_Part one. _

_“Преданный” _

— a Russian word that means both “devoted” and “betrayed”

  
  


The Treaty of Saint Petersburg is signed secretly in the spring of 1812.

Nicklas isn’t present for the act itself but he is for several of the negotiation sessions between Russia and Sweden. It is a difficult process. As both hereditary enemies and geographical neighbours, there are no strangers in any of the rooms in which they gather. Away from the desperation and mud of the front, it is all quite civilised. As the talks stretch into the night, candles are lit and the gold buttons and braids on the sea of formal uniforms glitter.

With three of his own gold buttons signify his military rank, Nicklas is as bejewelled as his sister-in-law at one of her society parties. So to is he presented as meticulously. A series of valets dressed Nicklas for the occasion; untangling his hair and working hard to make him resemble the portrait his family commissioned. It is quite a task. He had not worn his formal uniform for months, and it hung loosely on his frame when he first tried it back on.

The honour of his presence is specifically requested by his cousin Gabriel.

Once one of Napoleon's Field Marshals and now the adopted Crown Prince of Sweden, it is he who initiates the treaty talks. The overtures are welcomed by Russia initially due to Gabriel’s willingness to cead any claim to Finland. What Gabrial’s adopted father, King Gustav IV Adolf, once refused to abandon - what he went to war over - is offered to Russia on a silver platter. Though not freely. In return for Finland’s integration into the sprawling Russian Empire, Tsar Alexander the First offers his support of Sweden’s plans to claim Norway.

“Why go East when we can go North?” Gabriel asks Nicklas once.

He makes it sound easy.

Simple.

It is a strange thing.

But then, it was only a handful of years since Gabriel was leading Napoleon’s auxiliary corps to invade Sweden. It was on the Swedish-Danish border Nicklas served with distinction against the combined forces of Denmark-Norway; his formal uniform bares the clasp to signify as such. It wasn’t a battle either side wanted to fight; even on the ground, Nicklas had known that. Hands were forced - mostly by the people in this room who are once again redrawing lines on maps.

Only a few years ago in 1807, on a raft in the middle of the Niemen of Tilsit, the Tsar had done the same with Napoleon and the disgraced Prussian King.

The entire continent was cut and divided between the two over the course of one day. 

The two good friends made piecemeal of it; on paper Sweden was given over to Russia. Though that was a footnote compared to the dismantled empire of Prussia. Now the Tsar is on the precipice of switching alliances, and turning face on his once dear friend.

Maybe it’s funny. 

“Do you trust him?” Nicklas asks. 

“The Tsar?” Gabriel asks, then laughs. “Of course not.” 

The Treaties of Tilsit are worthless in this new age. They were probably worthless when signed. The Tsar had privately broken with them in spirit long before Gabriel’s interventions. 

Now they are poised to ally against Napoleon.

Their agreement codified in The Treaty of Saint Petersburg, creates a formal alliance between Sweden and the Russian Empire against the rising threat of the French Empire of Napoleon. Part of the treaty involves a form of collateral; a marriage contract. 

Several marriage contracts, but only one is of immediate concern. 

Nicklas might be a second son, but he is a Bäckström. A member of the _ frälse_. Still a prize. Still with worth, if not estates of his own. The aforementioned worth had been calculated to the krona at the beginning of the year when he had been ransomed by the French after their capture of the Swedish Pomerania. It had been paid by Gabriel. At the time Nicklas had not known how he was to repay his cousin. Now that was no longer a mystery to him. 

“You do not have to do this,” Gabriel tells him. 

Nicklas does not. 

Neither did Gabriel have to pay for Nicklas’s freedom when his parents could not raise capital. He knows better to say that. 

In biding his words, he is misunderstood. 

“Even Napoleon was denied Grand Duchess Ekaterina.”

He was also denied the hand of her younger sister, Anna Pavlovna. Nicklas has not been offered a sister, but a second cousin. Or maybe a third. The current royal house of Holstein-Gottorp-Rurik-Romanov has a complicated and complex family tree.

“I remember meeting Alexander,” Nicklas says instead.

They were in Hanover. Or trying to get there. 

The King of Prussia’s reluctance to allow Swedish and Russian forces to cross his territory lead to endless delays. As a cornet in his first set of colours, Nicklas remembers waiting and then, later, the shock of battle. He had not seen the front lines. As the son of a _ friherre _and the grandson of another, he was kept well away from the melay. In his rich blue and yellow uniform, he had ran messages between officers. The sound of his heart pounding in his chest as loud as the cries from the battlefield the entire time.

But before -

Before the battle - 

Before, when they were waiting and waiting -

Nicklas -

He remembers the electric colour of Alexander’s eyes. The sharpness of his gaze; the line of his silhouette; the cut of his uniform; the blue of his eyes. The sun bleached colour of his hair. They had not been introduced before that point but Nicklas had noticed him. Of course Nicklas noticed him.

They had spoken briefly.

Nicklas can’t remember a single word they exchanged.

Here, now, in the present - Nicklas thinks, _ yes_.

_ Yes, _ he will marry Alexander. 

The decision settles on Nicklas like an exhaled breath and it is nothing to pick up a pen. Nothing at all to sign the documents binding them together. 

  
  
  


The contract is an elaborate document, but there is simplicity in picking up a pen. 

The signing comes as a relief. Or Nicklas thinks it should. Gabriel watches and drinks an entire tumbler of whisky in one go. His hand as steady as it has ever been. The title of Crown Prince is new; from what Nicklas can tell there is considerable interest in how he wears it. The general consensus currently seems to be ‘quite well,’ but the treaty with Russia has yet to be announced.

Nicklas is the last person to site it; his future husband’s signature curves over the cream page. An elaborate name and a title. An estate of his own. Alexander is the youngest of his family; the youngest child of a Grand Duke. He was a company commander in the Astrakhan Infantry Regiment when their paths crossed. Years have passed since then.

“An officer still?” Nicklas asks.

To his ears, there is a note of indifference to his voice. He wonders if it rings true.

It does not do to be openly curious in front of a man like his cousin.

Gabriel does not look at him. His focus has already shifted to his aids. Clustered around the edges of the room, they move at one to retrieve the signed papers. Their synchronicity is a credit to their profession and their ambitions.

“Of course,” Gabriel tells him absently. 

But aren’t they all? 

Isn’t he?

Nicklas takes the drink offered to him and swallows it in one gulp. 

  
  
  


A day, a week. An inch, a mile.

Before leaving the Capital, Nicklas is assigned to a new regiment. That too, his cousin organises. It isn’t part of the Treaty, but it isn’t difficult to draw a line between the two. Another button. Another honour. Another promotion. Does Nicklas deserve it? Does it matter either way? Mostly he tries to keep his men fed, tries to train them, tries to keep them whole. 

There is little honour in much of war, and less in the mechanisms of a court. But that isn’t a secret. The marriage contract is. For a while. 

Nicklas is out of the country when the papers are read in parliament.

Back on campaign with his regiment, it is a cold comfort. Letters come from home. He reads what he can and replies to less than he should. His brother, Kristopher, does not understand. Nicklas is glad of it. Perhaps their mother might, but she writes her letters carefully. There is a comfort in decoding the rambling paragraphs; tracking the happenings of Stockholm and figures of importance orbiting through the sphere of governance. The twist of her cursive is purposeful. Born in Finland, she had waged her own campaign to find a place in society. It was bloodless and a coup of a kind. 

Nicklas has known victory, and failure; neither were bloodless.

He does not speak of that with her. Nor with anyone. What is there to say? 

He goes where he is told. He battles for every inch of land. 

The alliance between Sweden and Russia is new. Untested. 

He wonders if it should feel strange to fight along the Russians. 

“Better than the Prussians who are late to arrive at each battlefield,” Colonel Henrik Zetterberg tells Nicklas when he is summoned.

In an open sided tent, Colonel Zutterberg is surrounded by paperwork and aids. As commander of their regiment, he knows better than most what the new treaty with Russia means. Though thankfully he has little interest in how it impacts Nicklas. He is much more interested in the ways it will affect the matters of his regiment. It is early days, but his desk is already straining under the weight of new correspondence. 

As a rule, Nicklas knows Colonel Zetterberg has always respected the Russians. Not only that; he likes Field Marshal Datsyuk, who writes endlessly and expects answers to each query. Fortunately Nicklas isn’t the one racing around delivering them, but he is one of the people trying to make sense of them. 

Their Crown Prince who is their Prince Regent in all but name, has them treading water.

“For the first time in his life he is a man with things to lose,” Colonel Zetterberg says. “Instead of things to win.”

There is ink on his face. 

Nicklas tries not to focus on it. He wants to laugh. He doesn’t. But he wants to.

“Crowns are easy to acquire,” Nicklas comments.

It seems like every branch on the Bonaparte tree now glitters. 

Napoleon's even managed to crown duel queens; Rex Regina and Prima Regina. The King’s Queen and the First Queen. One rules by his side, and the other had apparently been gifted Australia as a Queendom. It was quite a neat solution to his unique problem of acquiring an heir. All were appeased. Or none; depending on different gossip. 

“Less easy to share.”

That is certainly true. For Gabriel, and for Josephine and Marie Louise.

He watches another aid appear and disappear, exchanging one pile of maps with another. New markings scatter across the pages. Movement elsewhere. Nothing close to them. 

There are months left of the campaign season. The sunshine has dappled the coats of his horse and freckled Nicklas’ face. His hands are made for use. His mouth twitches. There is a game for this. A possibility for action if not probability. Nicklas has managed with less.

“As have we all,” Colonel Zetterberg allows. 

He does not sound concerned. 

  
  
  


Occasionally, Nicklas hears of Alexander; sightings and stories.

The Imperial forces are moving within the Russian Empire. They are now officially at war with France. There is word of Alexander near the border of Belarus in the towns of Vitebsk, then at Vileyka. He seems to be everywhere, all at once. The information comes second hand and the stories shared are of little value. Afterall, Nicklas has heard some of the tales told about himself. There was very little resemblance between the novelized version of himself and the reality. 

The French are moving too. As are the British. 

Nicklas watches Colonel Zetterberg’s maps shift, and tracks each change. 

It feels like every nation is poised for action. Apart from Sweden. 

  
  
  
  


Nicklas is engaged, but it feels far away when he is away on campaign. This time a year ago Napoleon and Tsar Alexander were allies, now Nicklas is engaged to the Tsar’s cousin. He thinks of that a little when he has time. He finds he has an excess of it. Where most of the country’s that form the Sixth Coalition are in motion, acting or reacting against Napoleon, Swedish forces are - well. Nicklas spends most of his morning watching his non-commissioned officers practice horse tricks from the saddle.

Someone is going to end up in the dust, he thinks idly. 

Perhaps he should act. It is important to have his battalion battle ready. 

Colonel Zetterberg would probably act. Nicklas should act. He would. But - 

“Are we so short on entertainment?” Carl Halegin, Colonel Zetterberg’s aide-de-camp, questions. 

“Can this be called entertaining?” 

They watch a cornet - William Nylander - attempts to stand on his horses back. It is a terrible idea.

“His father was my first Captain,” Nicklas comments absently. “A great man.” 

Carl hums. “Are you going to intervene?”

They watch as William gamely climbs out of his stirrups, and perches on his knees. His horse’s ears flick back and down.

It will be a a good learning experience,” Nicklas decides.

Carl huffs out a laugh. 

As well as a lesson in equine sensibilities, it will also provide Nicklas with some much needed peace.

Lately instead of referring to Alexander by rank or title, the battalion has taken to calling him, ‘Bäckström’s Alexander.’ 

That informal and vaguely impertinent moniker is decided upon by his young löjtnant’s. Deputies to Captain Marcus Johansson who is a Company Commander, André Burakovsky and Christian Djoos are the ones who take it upon themselves to differentiate the Alexander who is the Tsar of Russia and the one who is Nicklas’s future husband. 

“They’re all named Alexander in Russia,” is something Nicklas overhears said in the mess. 

Marcus finds it amusing. 

It is a wonder he does.

There have been enquiries about him. Or rather about their childhood friend Lars Eller. As eighth in line to the throne, Lars may not be inline to inherit anything other than his mother’s hearty constitution and a minor parcel of territory in Sarpsborg, but apparently his name has been discussed in the Royal Palace in Stockholm. As has Marcus’. Nicklas finds out when Marcus tells him. 

“If we marry, I will be made an Earl.”

He manages to hold his expression for a beat, before he breaks. His mouth takes on a laughing smile and Nicklas ducks his head. 

“You’re friends with him,” Nicklas reminds him. 

“I have little interest in formalising those ties with marriage,” Marcus shrugs. 

Perhaps he will not be asked to do so. Marcus is a favourite of their grandparents. 

Dutiful and just, there is more than one way to earn a title in this world. It feel more honourable do so through marriage than on the battlefield. 

“We must all earn a living,” Marcus allows. 

Inside the mess, a burst of staccato laughter breaks out. There is only one source, and he has spilt gravy on his uniform. 

“We are not the only ones,” Nicklas reminds them both.   
  
  


Towards the end of spring, a letter arrives at camp with an unfamiliar wax seal. The paper is creamy, but the text is smudged. 

Nicklas finds himself laughing. 

He is offered fine tidings and congratulations by his husband. 

Maybe it is sentimental, but the pages written by Alexander’s cramped hand end up tucked in the breast pocket of Nicklas’s jacket. When the regiment settles in an abandoned farmhouse, he brings them out to reread them in full. 

He does not know how to send a reply. 

Perhaps that is all for the best. He has never been known as a clever conversationalist. Mostly he is known as a tactician. The metric for this has mostly been in the survival of Nicklas’s company.

  
  
  


Time and money and division orders. 

Nicklas has an excess of the first, and a distinctive lack of the second and third. Though born into rank and privilege, it’s been generations since the Bäckström’s were both land and cash rich. The loss of land both on the Swedish Pomerania and Finland, resulted in yet more lost revenue and failed investments. Promises were made for recompensation, but Nicklas is also still owed prize money for his efforts dating back to the offensive in Hanover. 

Marching towards the Netherlands, there is opportunity for further distinction in battle, but orders from above dictate caution. 

“Open battle only rewards victors,” Carl comments.

It didn’t serve their former king, King Gustavus Adolphus IV, who lost his crown and a third of Sweden's territories - notably Finland, which was now Russian. There would be no reclaiming it. That was part of the promises made and accepted by Gabrial and the Tsar. As Napoleon's Field Marsel, Gabriel had a reputation for being relentless. He had not stopped when he battled the Prussians. Even vastly outnumbered against fresh men, Gabrial had outwitted and out fought them.

“And this caution?” Nicklas asks. 

“Wisdom?” Carl suggests. His tone even and unremarkable. 

Nicklas glances at him. His mouth twitches not into a smile but something akin to it. 

“There is word of your Alexander,” Carl offers. 

At this subject switch, Carl does smile. 

“You too?” Nicklas asks.

“My horse does not know any tricks.” 

His horse is a charger; a fine bay gelding called Rollo who moves with the precision that speaks of his rider. This too, is exact. Careful tone and pitch. Nicklas can appreciate that if not the fact he is the topic of gossip. 

Apparently via the Colonel, Carl has heard reports of Alexander achieving distinction in Polotsk, Smolensk, and Borodino. It is preposterous. One man cannot be in all battles in the Russian Empire. 

“They are calling him Alexander the Great,” Carl tells Nicklas.

At this, Nicklas can’t help but laugh loudly. 

“I hope the Tsar does not find out. It would make him terribly envious for a lessor cousin to have been given his Grandmother’s epithet.

Carl grins. “I imagine she would like him.” 

At the very least she probably would have liked that Alexander got his start in the Chevaliers-Gardes, the cavalry regiment she created. 

“I hope he is treated to such entertainment about my exploits,” Nicklas decides. 

“I can send word if you like,” Carl offers with a sly look. 

He probably could. 

  
  
  


Letters keep find Nicklas. 

They do not come regularly or in order. There are not many of them, but more than he could have ever expected. 

Nicklas reads them, and keeps them. 

When he can, he tries to write replies. There is no elegance to his correspondence. No one had ever said he had a way with words. But still. He tries. 

  
  
  


There are documents and maps. They are guarded. 

There are messages and reports. Those are handled with care. 

Then there are the records Nicklas keeps; Alexander’s letters and the regimental gossip. The treaty bound them, and it bound their countries against a common enemy. 

The treaty was an act. 

The entire continent of Europe is waiting for the reaction. 

It’s only a matter of time. 

  
  
  


One foot in front of the other. 

It is always like this. Waiting, waiting, waiting and then action. 

The air changes. 

Nicklas feels it. 

He touches the neck of his charger. The flea bitten gray mare twitches under his touch. Her muscles feel like piano wires. 

He breaths; inhale, exhale. 

It always smells the same. 

It always feels endless. He stands and he holds the line. The nose is deafening. The crash of bodies, of horses, of gunners all fill the air and make it almost impossible to make his voice heard. Nicklas has to use force to make his orders audible over the crescendo of battle. Only the projection of his voice begets orders being decimated.

Dirt and gunpowder get in his mouth. He coughs. He gulps oxygen. 

He does not pause. He cannot hesitate for a second. 

Then -

Then - 

This is a small battle. 

Not even that. 

But still. Afterwards Nicklas feels his heart pounding in his chest. 

  
  
  


Always and always. 

Never ever. 

What stories are told of Nicklas? He does not care to know. He never has. 

  
  
  


When the Russian Empire joined the Sixth Coalition against Napoleon, it was only a matter of time. Nicklas knew this even back in the glittering state rooms. They all did. 

War is coming. Maybe not the full force of it to where Nicklas is stationed halfway between the Pomerania and the Netherlands, but it’s coming. Up ahead of the Swedish forces, are the remaining French who are occupying the Pomerania. The road Nicklas is on, is one he knows, and he knows what is ahead of them. 

War is heading Alexander’s way too. It’s unavoidable. It’s hard to know if it’s unstoppable - if the French are stoppable. Nicklas doesn’t want to think of that. He can’t. There are choices he can make. Not many. But that is one of them. 

Time and money and invasions. It always comes back to those three things. 

“When?” Andres asks Nicklas. 

His eyes are red, his brow cut open from shell splitters. He is young. All of his experiences with warfare are limited what he has seen under Nicklas’ command. 

“Soon,” Nicklas tells him. It is the only answer he can give. 

  
  
  


The Grande Armée cross the Neman River on 23 June 1812, only months after the Treaty of St Petersburg is signed.

It is an act of war. 

It is an act of ambition. 

It is a long time coming. 

“Perhaps it is fate,” Colonel Zetterberg says. 

The words sound like something Field Marshal Datsyuk would write. Nicklas doesn’t know what Alexander would write. It has been weeks since the last letter appeared. If he is still writing to Nicklas, his letters do not find him. 

There is no way to tell if Nicklas’ letters reach him. But still. He writes them. 

  
  


(No new orders are sent from Stockholm). 

  
  


There are the records Nicklas keeps; the movements of the Imperial Russian forces, their battles, their victories and defeats. The long retreat. 

Sweden and Russia were enemies long before they were allies. Nicklas knows what kind of war they wage.

“The French are marching on Moscow,” Överstelöjtnant Nylander informs Nicklas during a private briefing.

It’s impossible.

Then it’s a certainty.

It is a tightly held secret until it is not. Overnight everyone in Nicklas’s company knows. Russia is burning and the French are waiting for the Tsar to sue for peace. It’s mud and death and then - 

Then the wind changes. 

  
  


The war end.

(The war end?)

They have ended before; Napoleon banished to Elba.

“Maybe this time it will stick,” Marcus says. 

“Maybe,” Nicklas cautiously allows. 

  
  


_Part two. _

_Winners can't be judged._

\- Catherine the Great.  
  


Although there is a marriage contract, there is no reason to marry Alexander after the dust has settled. So many treaties and agreements mean so little now. No one is holding Russia to the Treaty of Tilsit they signed with France. No one even remembers it; not after everything. Not after everything Russia won and lost against Napoleon. 

Stuck in the Netherlands, Nicklas feels like he is treading water. Word comes rapidly from numerous sources. His brother, Kristopher, writes twice. His hand is familiar. His words mirror reports that must have come from Gabriel, Sweden’s newly crowned king. Yet the addendum asking when Nicklas will be home, hurriedly scribbled at the end of his letter is wholly Kristoper. 

The thought of going home breaks something inside Nicklas. 

Word also comes from Alexander. 

_ ‘What good timing your new King has,’ _ Alexander writes. 

It’s a more thinly veiled critique than Nicklas is used to reading, though he can’t say it isn’t apt. The Swedish forces are scarcely lesser in numbers than they were when they began their march to reclaim the Pomerania and the Netherlands. In contrast the Imperial forces Alexander had lead are vastly decreased. The numbers of lives lost of the battlefields have varied depending on the sources of reports, but the numbers are vast. A generation is gone; lost. 

Alexander survived. 

Draped in glory, he is somewhere in Central Europe. Apparently he is on his way to the Congress in Vienna. 

It is quite an honour; one of many. 

_ ‘I wear them all,’ _ Alexander writes. _ ‘Otherwise I would not be fit for civilised company.’ _

It is a somewhat charming way to describe his current situation.

Though Russia had defeated the Grande Armée of Napoleon, in the aftermath of the Patriotic War (which Nicklas’s father politely refers to as ‘the troubles’) Alexander is now penniless and a prince in name only. His extensive estates are gone - destroyed both by the French but mostly by the scorched earth policies that he himself ordered as the Russians retreated. Though Alexander’s name elicits a certain feeling of romance in Vienna, it now has little influence in Sweden. 

A Rurik-Romanov marriage was fashionable a decade ago; necessarily three years ago; now it is - 

_ ‘Nonbinding,’ _ Nicklas’s father decides when he writes to Nicklas. _ ‘And no longer necessary.’ _

The letters move quicker than Nicklas does. 

Perhaps his father is right. 

It is a strange thought, that after so long living under the assumption of marriage, Nicklas is now free. 

The shape of it is hard to imagine.

Or maybe the problem is he still thinks _ mine _ when he thinks of Alexander. 

  
  
  


It isn’t a detour but it does cause delays when Nicklas waits in Pomerania after marching back from the Netherlands. 

It is there he is found, rather than finds Alexander. 

There is a brightness to him. His mouth manages something. Not a smile, but something akin to one. A shadow, maybe.

“We meet at last,” Alexander comments. 

It feels like an offering. 

In the bright light, Alexander looks both as Nicklas remembers and different. His hair is cut close, and Nicklas thinks it suits him. What softness there was to him has been rendered away. There was never much softness to Nicklas. That he knows. There was a reason his father bought him his colours at sixteen rather than sending him to the Church. How long has it been? How far has Alexander come? His gaze doesn’t quite meet Nicklas’; a tactic Nicklas himself has employed. There is no sign of the honours he achieved, but the exhaustion is plain to see. The delicate skin under his eyes is shadowed deep purples and blues. 

“At last,” Nicklas echos, his heart in his throat. “I thought you were in Vienna.”

“Not as of yet,” 

Apparently Alexander is in the Pomerania because he has been sent there.

“Not in disgrace,” he says, when they are in his tent. 

Is that a joke? Nicklas cannot tell. 

He is accompanied by a quorum of officers and aids. Or he is part of them. His hands link together. Dirt under his nails. His posture isn’t at ease even though he mimics it. 

“We are so far from Stockholm,” Nicklas finds himself saying. 

This does make him laugh. 

Here they are. Reportedly the wars are over. Said reports are scattered over his desk proclaiming peace. Maybe this time it will stick. 

“We are here together,” Alexander agrees. 

His face is still recognisable; even after everything; even here, in Nicklas’s travel worn accommodations. Nicklas doesn’t know if it is a face which is dear to him. Maybe. It is hard to think of such things. It feels like such a luxury. 

For what it’s worth, he still has the letters. They press against the seams of his shirt pocket. The edges soft, and paper worn. 

“What now for you?” Alexander asks.

“For us?”

Alexander glances at him. His expression is impossible to decipher. 

But Nicklas feels caught. Caught out, maybe. 

“Marry me,” he says. 

“You don’t know me.”

It isn’t an answer. 

Or maybe it is. 

And maybe Nicklas should know better. Maybe he should practice caution and restraint like Gabriel does. 

“Marry me anyway,” he tells Alexander. 

  
  
  


Alexander comes in a pair. 

Alexander and Alexander. 

One is a Grand Duke, the other is - Nicklas isn’t sure. 

Sasha, his Alexander is called by the other Alexander. 

The mouth that holds the name grins. There and gone. He is missing one tooth. His nose looks like it was broken and reset more than once. Somehow it doesn’t distract from the effect. 

Sanja, is the name offered with a laugh. 

“Sanja?”

Sasha and Sanja; that isn’t any better, Nicklas thinks. He realises. 

Sanja shrugs. “Alex?”

It is a very Central European name to offer. Nicklas feels more able to manage it than Sanja. 

Apparently Alex is an officer. He fought beside Sasha. He stands besides Sasha now, when they meet at the stables. 

It takes Nicklas time to place him. 

“He is a general,” he realises afterwards, to his embarrassment. 

Alexander shrugs. “So am I.” 

He says it simply, as if just another fact. 

Another title, another uniform worn to dinner parties. Only these dinner parties are at salons and now they both have better hair cuts. But - 

Alex - General Alexander Ovechkin - he commanded the left flank at the Battle of Borodino. He had held the line against the French; outmanoeuvre the infamous General Louis-Nicolas d'Avout. On that day _ ‘The Iron Marshal _’ had been forced back not just once but twice by General Ovechkin. Napoleon himself grudgingly acknowledged General Ovechkin’s brilliance. 

Alexander’s expression shifts a little.

That was the battle which won Napoleon the prize of Moscow. He couldn’t hold it though. It was his ruin. 

  
  
  


(Like fighting smoke; that was how Alexander was described by the French.)

  
  
  


In the stables, the smell of leather and the soft sounds of horses is a comfort.

As a child it had been where Nicklas retreated. He is no longer a child, but when Alexander is called away to speak to an aid Nicklas’ feet still lead a path from his tent to only one place. Only instead of seeing his mare, Sparv, poke her delicate face out of the stall at the sound of his footsteps, he sees her occupied with the attentions of another - 

“General Ovechkin,” Nicklas greets. 

“Alex.”

The correction is given without censor - in fact, with a smile as Nicklas’ own horse nuzzles for sweets that she finds tucked in Alex’s pockets. She sniffs them out, and accepts them when offered on a flat palm. She is gentle about it - she is a gentle horse and well trained. Though she gained her name by virtue being smaller than the mounts of Nicklas’ fellow officers, she was sure and brave in battle. There was no other mount he would rather call his than her.

“You have a good horse,” Alex comments.

He does not look at Nicklas as he says this.

His eyes are only for Sparv - she was named for the little sparrows who would hop around the travelling stable yards in hopes of stealing a gain or two of barley or oats. It is only thanks to his mother’s godmother that Nicklas had access to the funds to purchase her. Before he had managed on a senior schoolmaster borrowed from his brother’s stable. 

“You are a war hero,” Alex says. 

Nicklas supposes he is. He shouldn’t be. In truth, all he managed to do was survive and it was a task far easier for him than for Alex and Alexander. 

“You must have won some prize money.”

“Some,” Nicklas allows. “You?”

Alex glances at him. His hand strokes a line from pole to wither; Sparv leans into the gentle touch.

“Some,” he offers.

Probably more than he deserves. Probably less than others.

“Come have dinner with us tonight,” Alex offers.

He makes the invitation without ceremony. Like it is something he can offer.

Nicklas glances at him. 

It is the wrong thing to do, because Alex catches his gaze. 

“We can drink to victory,” he says.

If they drank to that, there would be nothing left. When he says as much, Alex grins. 

“What else is there to drink to?” Alex asks. “I have raised many a glass to your engagement to Sasha.”

There is colour to Nicklas’ face. He can feel the prickle of it. He does not know why; this is nothing. Nothing no one else hasn’t joked about.

Discomfort makes Nicklas cruel. He strikes out without hesitation.

“Do you often invite others to Alexander’s table?”

Disinterest is easy. Or easy enough to mimic.

Nicklas lets it colour his tone.

Maybe it would even be more convincing if the back of his neck didn’t feel so hot or the slant of his jaw as tight. Maybe. But who is counting? Well. Other than the obvious. He feels Alex’s gaze.

“No,” Alex answers. “I prefer not to share it.”

His voice is rich.

And he laughs. Like it is a joke.

  
  
  


Nicklas knows what he is like. He doesn’t have many illusions about his character. 

He is made up of sharp pieces. As an officer he is effective, precise, and respected if not loved by the soldiers he leads. There is no glory to his methods. His name is not spoke in hushed tones. He had survived. He is a survivor. 

The way he sees the world is the way he walks in it.   
  
  


Nicklas knows better. He goes to dinner anyway.

All three of them are waiting in Pomerania. Waiting for orders. Waiting. Circling each other.

Nicklas hadn’t fought. Not at a battle worth fighting. Not like Alexander and Alex. Instead he had swallowed everything. The nerves. The anxiety. The adrenaline. All of it was useless. All of it is inside him still. 

“I was named after my grandfather,” Alex tells Nicklas over a glass of something that tastes like he stole it from the French.

His mouth twitches into a shadow of a smile. A smirk.

He is waiting for Nicklas to ask which Alexander. The Romanov dynasty has returned to variations of the same names again and again.

Alexander does smile. “As was I.”

“What a coincidence.”

Nicklas looks at them. They do not have a similar bone structure.

Maybe two generations back, he thinks. Maybe three. Maybe there was a mistress.

Maybe he says something out loud.

Alex smirks. “There are always mistresses.”

And his eyes are so bright and he is so alive.

“Are there?” Nicklas asks.

Are there?

Alex’s smirk shifts. He shifts.

Alexander is watching.

“Maybe it’s a family tradition.”

  
  
  
  


_ Part three. _

_ My life as yours has been _ strange _ \- you are _ strange _ \- _ but not to me _ . _

A quote from a letter to Isadora Duncan from Gordon Craig, 1913.

  
  


There is ash and there is dirt. The former stains the letter from Alexander’s surviving sister. It arrives after the Congress of Vienna, after the lines of world maps have been redrawn once more and the dust is beginning to settle. 

Sasha - Alexander. Whichever name - 

Nicklas did not know there was a sister. She is older than Alexander. Many years separate them. Enough that Alexander was a surprise. Enough that before his birth, she married well partly because there was little hope of anyone else inheriting the Semin lands which their family had controlled since the times of Vsevolod I of Kiev. 

“She has children,” Alex offers while they are celebrating Peace in the Hofburg Palace. 

They are watching Alexander attempt to converse with the Hapsburg princes. 

He is nodding. The four princes are talking. At a distance it is impossible to tell any of them apart. Though honestly it isn’t any easier up close. The conversation seems to be going better than when the Viscount Castlereagh had sought his favour on the Polish issue. (The Polish issue being the fact the Tsar wanted to claim the country as his own). 

The elegance of the Baroque era rooms belies the amusement Alex’s tone. Above them, the richly painted illusionary ceiling captures a scene of sparkling daylight and brings it to the nighttime gathering. The ballroom is made almost stifling from the warmth of bodies surrounding them.

Nicklas huffs out a laugh.

No wonder the Tsar offered to Alexander during negotiations. 

Within a single generation, any Swedish intrusion in the Rurik-Romanov family will be gone.

It is very Russian, Nicklas thinks, to give something but lose nothing.

  
  
  


The letter doesn’t contain any news.

It is not a surprise, really, that there is no estate left.

Russia used scorched-earth tactics. It was a relentless tactic that left nothing in their wake. The Grande Armée found no shelter, no produce or game in the blackened fields. Nothing that they could survive on. Why would Alexander’s Krasnoyarsk estate survive that when Moscow, the Spiritual Capital of Russia, was left a smoldering shell when Tsar Alexander and his Imperial army abandoned it? Alexander probably burnt it himself.

In the end, they marry in Stockholm in the Royal Chapel of the Royal Palace.

It is a royal wedding, attended by a collective of people. Family, of course. Royalty from all across Europe. Statesmen, Ministers, Chancellors, and figures of note are all invited. It is considered an event to celebrate; nationally and personally. Nicklas was a Major when he left home, and when he returns he is granted an additional embroidered buttonhole to signify his improved status as Colonel.

He now matches Alexander in rank, more or less.

That matters, apparently, especially on their wedding day. 

Kristopher serves as Nicklas’ best man and one of Nicklas’s older cousins acts as second and serves beside him. As a teenager, Nicklas served under Premiärmajor Michael Nylander as a cornet. It feels like an echo of the past to be beside him once more. In the cathedral, Nicklas can’t help but glance over at Michael. For what, Nicklas doesn’t know. Maybe reassurance - which is given wordlessly.

Alex stands for Alexander. It would be a scandal if he wasn’t a hero. A true war hero. Maybe it is still a scandal. He and Alexander are mirrors of each other. Not just in the fine medals and colour of their uniform. There is something about the way they are together that speaks volumes.

They _ know _ each other.

Nicklas -

Alexander's hand is callused when he offers it to Nicklas during the ceremony. When Nicklas takes it, Alexander rubs his thumb over Nicklas’ knuckles.

It’s unexpectedly tender.

Something in Nicklas goes very still and quiet.

He inhales and exhales very slowly.

There are words and promises. They are said in Swedish, Russian, and Latin. It’s a choreographed dance. One that they had both been coached through by various parties employed to minimise the possibility of diplomatic embarrassment or misstep.

There are also bands of gold, that they exchange.

Outside bells are rung afterwards. At the wedding lunch, there is out of season fruit served for dessert. Nicklas does not know where his family sourced it or how they afforded it. The bulk of their estates are gone. Or. Were gone. Were occupied by the French. Nicklas assumes they have been restored to them now. He hopes his mother didn’t have to sell any of her first editions or curios. It is shaming enough that the crown orchestrated the match itself let alone the wedding.

The day comes and it goes. 

“Are you going to take me home now?” Alexander asks at the end of the evening.

Nicklas supposes Alexander is Sasha to him now. His husband.

His face could be dear, Nicklas thinks. Maybe it is. It is certainly beautiful.

“Yes,” he says. 

It is another promise. One that Nicklas offers without thinking. It comes out easy. It doesn’t hurt, much. 

  
  
  


Money and a family name. 

Money and allegiances. 

Nicklas marries a Grand Duke, and brings him to a home he is gifted by the Swedish crown. 

It belonged to another old family. Nicklas came here are a child. He remembers being lead down the halls by his brother. There is no sign of the previous occupants. He doesn’t know how it came to belong to him, only now it does along with a country estate. Something the Russians are pleased with. There are details to the transactions that Nicklas does not know, but it isn’t difficult to guess. 

In the bedroom it is Sasha who looks at him. 

His mouth is soft when he kisses Nicklas. His hands too. 

“We don’t have to do this,” he tells Nicklas. 

His voice is kind. 

He might be kind, Nicklas thinks. 

Nicklas isn’t.

It hurts a little to think that. To know that. 

“Why not?” he asks. 

Sasha lays a hand on Nicklas’s side, a little akin to the way Alex touched his horse. It is… Nicklas doesn’t know. Nicklas feels like something to be gentled. He trembles. 

Nicklas isn’t kind. He knows that. And he doesn't feel frightened - not that. But his breath catches in his throat. 

Sasha represents something very old. Before the troubles, he was not something for someone to buy. Nicklas supposes neither was he. And now Sasha is. Nicklas too.

A contract; a dowry; a title; a county estate and a city manor. 

“What use do you have of me?” Nicklas asks. 

Sasha is very honest. 

  
  
  


The night falls. 

As dawn rises. 

When Nicklas wakes, he is pressed against the line of Sasha’s body. The line of his spine and the scent of his skin is - is so much. For a moment Nicklas closes his eyes. The warmth of the sun touches them both. 

It is early. Too early. 

  
  
  


Originally, when the Treaty of St Petersburg was first signed it was assumed that Nicklas would join Sasha and live in Russia with him. After their marriage in Grand Church of the Winter Palace, their honeymoon was to take the form of a formal tour. It would have taken them through the heart of the country. Instead they are gifted a short stay in the Royal Solliden Palace. Situated on the Baltic Coast, the summer residence has not been in use for over a decade. Though in a state of ill repair, it is a relief to be away from the capital. Nicklas did not know how weary he was of it until he arrives. 

“I am sorry,” he tells Sasha, after he finds himself being woken from sleep as their carriage arrives. 

In slumber, he had slumped onto Sasha’s side. 

“I did not want to wake you,” Sasha tells him. There is a note of caution to his voice.

There is a note of caution to him.

They are given a fortnight away from Stockholm, and most of it is spent together. 

Away from everything, Sasha is not quite who Nicklas expected. In letters, he was witty and sharp, introspective and expressive. In person there are times where he feels unfamiliar. Perhaps if Nicklas didn’t know better, he would call Sasha aloof but Nicklas thinks he is getting to know him. Rather than pushing his advance like stories of his tactics in the field always spoke of, he is careful with Nicklas. 

He is kind too - not overtly, but he is good with Sparv; drinking his morning tea black and saving the lumps of sugar for her and for his own gelding, Absent. 

“Bad habit,” he says, when Nicklas catches him. 

“There are worse,” Nicklas tells him. 

It isn’t much of a joke, but it makes Sasha smile. His smiles are small, and easily missed. Nicklas doesn’t know what it was like to grow up the least favourite cousin of the Tsar of Russia, but he thinks he can see echoes of it. It makes Sasha’s small kindnesses all the most precious. It should have been rendered from him; if not by his family then by the war. 

In the morning, it is a hand to the small of Nicklas’s back drawing him close. It’s his face looking up at Nicklas, blinking in the bright light spilling in through the large windows. It is easy to spend hours tangled up in the sheets. They lose their first few days to that; to the sweet sounds Sasha makes when Nicklas kisses him and the way Sasha can make Nicklas lose himself when he rocks into him so slowly. 

It would be easy to spend their entire honeymoon tucked away, but they do manage to find their way outside. 

In the gardens they lay in the verdant grass like a boys; Sasha reads the book Nicklas abandons and strokes his fingers through Nicklas’ hair. 

Is this love? 

Nicklas doesn’t know. He thinks it could be. 

(He wants it to be.) 

  
  
  


When their fortnight ends, with nowhere else to be or go, they return to Stockholm and stay there for what remains of the social season. 

It is strange to be back for it rather than on campaign. 

The mechanisms feel foreign to him. He feels foreign. 

Nicklas does not do well in crowds. Neither does Sasha. Loud noises have a habit of startling them. Sometimes smokey rooms make Nicklas feel breathless. Once, when the young heir to the Gustafsson family lights fireworks at their birthday, Sasha is so badly shaken by the display that he disappears from the ballroom. 

However his husband’s former comrade glitters with the attention. Where most of the Russian dignitaries left Stockholm in the days that followed the wedding ceremony, Alex has not. As far as Nicke could tell, there is no sign he is planning to leave. No matter the salon or club or bar or ballroom, he is easy to be found. So are his admirers; all new friend of someone who is apparently a Grand Duke.

“Trading on your title?” Nicklas asks his husband. 

Sasha shrugs. “Someone should.” 

It seems every Russian in not in Russia is a Prince or a Duke or a Count. 

“What a boon for you,” Nicklas says. “Surrounded by family.”

Sasha does not react. His face, the shape of his mouth and the blue of his eyes; Nicklas waits for a tell but there is nothing to see. 

This faux prince that Alex plays is a creation worth watching. He has glittering eyes and the hands of a soldier. He wears rich jewel colours and seems to be living quite well off the generosity of the nouveau riche. If Nicklas thought he would quietly stand aside after the wedding, he is mistaken. 

“Where else would I go?” Alex asks when he joins them between dances. 

His dance card is a mess of scribbled names. It hangs from his wrist and swings as Alex takes a glass of champagne from a passing maid. 

“Busy night,” Nicklas comments.

Alex grins, exposing his missing tooth.

“Come dance with me,” he says. 

Nicklas only dances with Sasha; it is one of the benefits of marriage and he tells Alex as much.

“Dance with me anyway,” Alex says. “I’m better at it than him.”

Sasha coughs. It sounds more like a laugh.

“No,” Nicklas tells him, then corrects himself. “No, thank you.”

Nicklas ends up dancing with Alex anyway, for a waltz.

Alex is a liar.

He is a horrible dancer. He knows only the approximation of dances.

“It is an unfair comparison,” Alex tells Nicklas. “Sasha had tutors.”

“And you?”

“I made do,” he says. He is smirking. 

Everyone is looking at them. Nicklas knows it. And yet, he can’t tear himself away. Alex is so bright and the hand on the small of Nicklas’ back is so sure and in the suffocating society of town, he finds himself biting back a smile as Alex tells him to stop trying to lead.

“I know what I’m doing,” he says. “Trust me.” 

“I wouldn’t dare do that.”

Alex presses into Nicklas’ space, dancing far too close. “Don’t tempt me.”

His voice is low and deep. Nicklas wants to react; wants to do something; anything. He doesn’t know. His hands give too much away, gripping Alex as they spin with increasing speed. The fabric of his jacket bunches under Nicklas’ grip. 

But the worst of it, is the staccato pound of Nicklas’ heart in his chest. 

  
  
  


Afterwards when Alex returns Nicklas to Sasha, Nicklas feels off balance. 

“He’s like that,” Sasha says. 

His eyes are gentle and he isn’t quite looking at Nicklas. He is looking at Alex. Dressed beautifully in deep, inky blues, Sasha is luminous. His mouth is soft and Nicklas is out of breath from dancing with Alex. Out of breath from dancing with his husband’s lover. Former or current. Nicklas isn’t sure. He doesn’t know if there is much difference.

An inch, a mile - this isn’t a battlefield but maybe Alex treats it like one. 

And maybe Nicklas likes it. Or him. Nicklas shouldn’t, but he does. 

Alex is sharp. So very sharp.

He is clever. And Sasha comes alive around him - Nicklas feels it. Sees it. Sees it in himself too. 

After so long away from home, it doesn’t make sense but Nicklas feels so far away from everything now he is back in Stockholm. From everything and everyone. It all feels so dull. He is the toast of society. He is a war hero. Apparently. He is probably going to have a fortune at some point for the battles he had fought for his country. 

And yet -

He - he has no idea what he is doing.

The world is at peace. What use is there for a solider?

“War is a good time to be an illegitimate son. We find ourselves to be of great use,” Alex tells Nicklas between dance sets.

It is similar for second sons. Maybe even for first sons, if the patchwork of Sasha’s old uniform tells any truth. There are so many rumours; so many stories. Nicklas doesn’t know how to separate them from each other.

“It is in peace that daughters are of great use,” Alex says.

“And poor sons,” Sasha adds, in that way of his.

There is truth to that.

Are they entering an era of peace? Nicklas doesn’t know. He hopes. Maybe it’s foolishness. It is certainly naive to act as he has.

  
  
  


From asking Nicklas and Sasha to dance, it isn’t much of a step for Alex to invite himself into their home.

When he follows them home from the ball, he is openly curious. He touches the oak panelling and drinks the wine from their cellar. He watches too, as Sasha takes off his jacket and waistcoat. Without them, the firelight makes his white dress shirt faintly translucent. Nicklas watches and he can’t help but wonder.

“You did it before,” he guesses.

Sasha glances over at him.

Nicklas clarifies - “During the war; you would swap titles. That’s why you were everywhere. I tried to keep track of the stories but there were too many.”

Alex grins. Delighted to have been caught.

“It was necessary,” Sasha says, though not convincingly.

Nicklas wonders exactly how they had managed it. The Russians and their tactics. The Russians and their royal family.

“It wasn’t so difficult,” Alex says.

That most certainly is a lie.

He wonders when it started. With more than one glass of whiskey in his system he ends up asking.

“We met when we were young.”

Nicklas wants to laugh. Maybe he does.

Alex is smiling. Sasha is looking bored, but that a defensive tactic as much as Alex’s easy smiles are an offensive one.

“Who wrote to me?” Nicklas asks, vaguely curious. 

The turns of phrases in the letters were distinctive. The tone had stood out.

Sasha glances at him, then looks away. Nicklas gets his answer.

“Both,” he realises.

He wonders how he should feel about that; that he was courted by two people rather than one. He glances at them; Sasha who isn’t looking at him and Alex who is.

Skilled military tacticians of note; all three of them.

And all of a sudden Nicklas’ blood feels hot in his veins. He wants to know everything. He wants to pick them apart. He leans forward, unable to take his eyes off them.

“Why?”

At this Sasha does glance at him. But only for a moment.

“Why not?”

It isn’t an answer.

But it is an answer. 

Something shifts. Nicklas can feel it. He finishes his glass of whiskey. He doesn’t taste a drop of it.

“I’m ready for bed,” he decides, and he holds out his hand to Sasha.

In the firelight, his wedding ring shines. It’s set with Russian diamonds. Sasha’s ring is set with emeralds gifted from a parure Gabriel commissioned. It too shimmers, but Nicklas only cares for the way Sasha takes his hand. His eyes are dark and he does not look away.

Nicklas’ breath catches.

When he leads Sasha to their room, he can’t help but press him against the bed and kiss him. His mouth is hot, and his teeth are sharp. He bites and he’s smiling. 

Nicklas has no idea what he is doing. 

“Why did you marry me?” he asks. 

“I wanted to,” Sasha answers.

He is brilliant and beautiful and in that moment Nicklas feels as much _ his _ as he had thought _ mine _when he had signed that treaty so very long ago. It’s exhilarating and unexplainable and Alex is here. Somewhere. Maybe down in the den drinking their liquor or in one of the other bedrooms sleeping it off. 

They had left him there; Nicklas had said he could stay. He was blithe about it. Disinterested. And now his heart is thundering. 

“Is he-?” Nicklas asks, not quite knowing what he is asking. “Does he-?”

“Yes,” Sasha tells him.   
  


There are battle plans and maneuvers. All three of them learnt their trade from masters. All of them performed their trade with various amounts of merit. They all have their strategies and Nicklas wonders if the trembling anticipation he feels inside himself is what his mother felt, so long ago when she left her home and came to make a life with his father. 

There isn’t much of the season left. It feels like a line in the sand.

“You could just ask,” Sasha says, in the morning. 

His eyes are half closed. His ash brown hair is tangled around his head. Nicklas can’t help but try to comb through it with his fingers. 

“He would say yes,” Sasha tells Nicklas, pressing in to his touch. “I said yes when you asked.”

Nicklas wants to bite him.

Sasha is smiling now. His eyes are so clear and bright.

“I want to win,” Nicklas tells him. It sounds stupid to say out loud.

Sasha’s expression is not the least bored. Nicklas loves him so much it hurts.

“How?” Sasha asks. 

And Nicklas loves him even more.   
  


The amusements of Stockholm society provide verdant grounds. There are always calling cards waiting to be answered and events to attend. Peacetime has opened up society once more. There is tentative hope that perhaps it may last. That this time might not be an interlupe but instead be a beginning of a new era.

They go to the ballet. 

It reminds both Sasha and Alex of home; Nicklas sources a box and the two of them sit on the edge of their seats watching with wide eyes. During intermission they share glasses of Champagne. 

“Do you remember-?” Alex asks. 

“You made me sit in the _rayok_,” Sasha says and he is biting back a smile. 

“Now your husband has bought us a box,” Alex grins, and he is looking at Nicklas so boldly. 

Nicklas can’t help but imagine the two of them in the paradise gallery, sitting pressed side by side on the simple wooden benches. They join Marcus and Lars for a late dinner afterwards. They aren’t engaged but they are out without anyone to chaperone them. 

“No one apart from you, cousin,” Marcus says. 

It’s awful. Nicklas can’t help but make a face. 

“It's your own fault,” Lars says. “There is talk you will be awarded the Order of the Polar Star for your services to the country.”

Nicklas winces. 

“It is not so bad,” Alex says, visibly delighted. But he would say that. He can’t wear all of the awards he had been honoured with. 

“You would sink, if pushed into the Söderström river while in parade uniform,” Nicklas tells him. 

Sasha turns away, but not before Nicklas catches the corner of his mouth twitching. 

“The same sentiment could be directed towards your husband,” Alex says, because of course he catches Sasha smile too. 

“Also a candidate,” Marcus notes. 

“Our Serene Highness is very pleased with your union.” 

Their Serene Highness, their new King, is very pleased with most things. He has come out of the war secure in his new title. Popular and beloved by the public, he has settled into his new life with aplomb. There is something fitting about seeing him in a palace, like he was always destined for it. Invitations to _ Kungliga Slottet _palace are fought over. The Royal Residence resplendent and somehow renewed by Gabriel’s optimism. 

There, Alex is a sought after. Everyone wants to dance with him, talk to him, be close to him. 

“Don’t be so obvious,” Sasha tells Nickalas. 

He isn’t smiling, but he doesn’t have to. Amusement is written into him. His eyes glitter and he leads them into a quadrille just to have an excuse to expose him. It’s terrible really, how easy Nicklas is when it comes to him. 

“Can anyone tell?” 

“I can.”

Sasha can read any room the way he can read a battlefield. If given the right terrain he can win both. Nicklas has heard stories and read the reports detailing the latter, but it’s something else to witness the ease in which Sasha can undo him. He’s not even trying and Nicklas is flushed. 

“Do you remember Hanover?” he asks, stupidly. 

“I remember you being rude. We weren’t even introduced.” 

Sasha is looking bored, but he isn’t. Nicklas can tell. 

“I knew I wanted to marry you then,” he tells Sasha. 

“And Sanja?” Sasha asks, because he knows how to press his advantage. 

In the battlefield he was known for the way he responded without hesitation; the quick confrontations, where speed and accuracy were most important. His tactics denied the enemy any chance to react, respond or even organize. This led to much tension and rivalry between him and the other generals the Tsar favoured but between Sasha and Alex, they were relentless. Practically unstoppable. 

Nicklas does not have half of their glories - but he knew how to wait. 

In war, it is always waiting until it isn’t. 

  
  


There are balls and dance cards. There is always a dance saved no matter Alex’s popularity. Mostly for Nicklas, but once or twice for Sasha. He and Alex are beautiful in motion. They know each other so well. There is never a misstep. Nicklas can’t take his eyes off them. 

There are also slow loping horse rides through the botanical gardens. Alex rides borrowed horses until Nicklas and Sasha - unused both to having money and spending it - gift him with an imported mare they source from contacts made in Vienna. Or contacts Sasha made. The Hapsburg Princes prove to be enthusiastic about a shared passion for equines if not politics. 

“You are giving up good ground,” Sasha comments, after they leave Alex doting on the new addition to his stable of equines. 

“Isn’t that the point?” Nicklas asks.

Sasha isn’t looking at him; and of course Nicklas reacts. 

“How did you go about it?” Nicklas asks, curious.

“Why do you think I did anything?” Sasha asks; his tone blithe. 

And -

Nicklas knows that too well. He says as much and Sasha glances at him. One look and Nicklas knew. This is no different. 

  
  


Alex doesn’t make it easy. Why would he? 

“Isn’t that the point?” he asks Nicklas. 

Probably not.

Alex draws it out for the rest of the season. His eyes are hot when he follows them home after galas but doesn’t follow them to their bedroom. It’s terrible. It’s infuriating, and Sasha is worse. Nicklas and Alex are circling each other, but Sasha is watching. He laughs when Nicklas is awarded with an Order of the Seraphim, but it serves him right when he is unexpectedly awarded an Order of the Sword. 

After the time consuming ceremony Nicklas catches Alex kissing Sasha on the balcony of the _ Kungliga Slottet _ palace_. _ It’s terrible really. They aren’t even ashamed, when he finds them. Alex has one of his large hands cradling Sasha’s jaw and they are so gorgeous and vibrantly alive together. Nicklas doesn’t know how anyone could love one of them without loving the other. 

Nicklas remembers before; he remembers meeting Sasha on a balcony outside of a crowded room. There was a sharpness to the line of his silhouette; 

“If you could choose -” Alex asks Nicklas now. 

“I did choose,” Nicklas tells him. He did in Stockholm and again and again and again. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Find/follow me on [tumblr](http://www.pr-scatterbrain.tumblr.com) if you want <3


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